By the time you realize that this is poetry, you would be sliding into the third line... The fourth will whisper my deeds perhaps the fifth will slide into the sixth telling you of my expeditions I have down caution to the wind to reap a typhoon of curiosity. My eyes have refused to be dim'd like the eyelids of an eclipse towards realism. Things are happening and people refuse to digest the meal whose aroma whispers to us about the mirage attire worn by hope. Books of faith remain lame towards the dashing quests of hunger, poverty, social vices - It is always at the door, casting its fishing net - This apparition